like the last wisps of stale morning fog off the East River. Paisley and I post up on a wooden bench about a block down from Jenkins’ to eat and people watch. The ice cream tastes like chocolate Easter eggs and the popcorn from those big tins they sell at Target around the holidays. It tastes like childhood. It tastes amazing.
“Want to try?” I offer.
“That’s okay,” Paisley says. “I’ve had it before. It’s their most popular flavor. Dad says that Mr. Jenkins says that his dad invented it. The original Mr. Jenkins. I prefer peanut butter.”
“Heya, Paisley.” We look up to find two girls around my age stopped on the sidewalk in front of our bench. One is wearing a red-and-white checkered sundress that looks vintage and a pair of Mary Jane flats the color of cherry pie filling. Her glossy brown hair is bone straight and pulled back in a neat ponytail, and her skin is a soft fawn brown. The other girl is dressed like me, denim shorts and a tank top. She’s only five feet three or four, but she’s all muscle. A swimmer, or maybe a gymnast. Her hair is cropped into a feathery pixie cut that emphasizes the surprising plumpness of her cheekbones and cool olive of her skin. A pair of large gold hoop earrings, the metal helixed into a delicate twist at the base of each hoop, dangle from her ears.
“Hey, Aster!” Paisley holds out her cone for me to take and jumps up to give the shorter girl a hug. I can feel two sets of eyes trained on me, their faces narrowing into the same apprehensive scrutiny I saw play across Lou’s face a few minutes ago.
“I’m Anna,” I supply quickly, eager to nip those looks in the bud. I shove up to my feet. “Paisley’s nanny.”
“Martina Green.” The girl in the vintage dress sticks out her hand, then drops it when she realizes mine are both filled with ice cream.
Her friend rolls her eyes. “She’s Martina Jenkins. ‘Green’ is like a stage name or something.”
Martina flashes Aster a flinty glare. “It’s my professional name,” she says, as if that clarifies anything. She can’t be any older than I am. What kind of profession could possibly require a name change? The ice-cream profession? Jenkins’ must be her family’s shop. I wonder fleetingly if she’s a print model. She doesn’t look quite tall enough, but she’s obviously into fashion, and she has that slightly edgy Urban Outfitters look.
I must be making a face because Martina sighs, as if resigning herself to an explanation that makes her tired. “I’m going to be a journalist, and my mother doesn’t like the idea of attaching the family name to my investigative work. She’s old school like that.”
“Like TV news and stuff?” I ask.
“For now, I’m editor in chief of my school paper. And I run a podcast series. Well, ran.” She offers Aster a weak smile, then drops her eyes to the sidewalk.
For a moment, everyone is quiet, and I wonder how many uncomfortable exchanges one morning can possibly hold.
“The podcast is about Zoe,” Paisley explains in a reverent voice, her chin tilted up toward me. “Aster and Zoe are sisters, and Martina’s going to find out what happened to her.”
Aster and Zoe. A to Z. I glance back at the shorter girl, noting how little she resembles me, or vice versa. Which means she must not look much like Zoe either, but of course not all siblings look alike. I remember Lou saying something about Zoe having an olive complexion, though, and as the sun glints off Aster’s gold hoops and olive shoulders, it strikes me that they’re probably Greek. Spanos.
“I did my best,” Martina says. “I’m so sorry, Aster.”
Aster wraps one toned arm around Martina’s shoulders and gives her friend a jostling squeeze. “It’s the police who dropped the ball, not you,” she says, voice kind. My gaze comes to rest on the raw, red lines of sadness that have settled along the rims of her eyes. She looks like she’s been living ten seconds away from tears for months.
Martina leans down to kiss the top of her friend’s head, and Aster’s lips soften into a smile. “Okay, no more Zoe talk before lunch,” she says, straightening up. “Do we still have time for sushi before your shift?” Her eyes flicker toward the ice-cream shop.
Martina digs her phone out her pocket—of course her dress has pockets—and turns on the screen. “Plenty. Dad can